Tintin and the Archeologist
by Constantinus
Summary: A summons from the International Archeological Society leads Tintin and Captain Haddock on a journey of many discoveries; meanwhile, Hiccup and company can't believe this new land they've found. OC's galore, but no romantic pairings. My first foray into wacky crossovers that really shouldn't work. Rated T for perilous situations.
1. Chapter 1: Venture

**Preface: I promised myself I wouldn't do this, I wouldn't write a crossover. They're too weird, it's too hard to combine multiple worlds while maintaining each fandom's internal logic. But then DragonSyndicate asked so politely and persistently for a Tintin and How to Train Your Dragon crossover that it got me thinking about the 'Maybes' and 'What if?s' and 'I wonders', with the following result.**

 **Fans of Michael Flynn's _Eifelheim_ will recognize the narrative structure at work here (and if you haven't read _Eifelheim_ , do yourself a favor and read it. Words cannot describe how wonderful that book is.). So, without further ado, I dedicate this fanfic to DragonSyndicate and apologize right off the bat for everything you are about to read.**

* * *

Prologue:

 _It's a rum thing, history, not what they tell you in grammar school or history books. It's a living thing, a tree that spreads its branches wide all summer long, then drops its leaves in autumn and seems to die in winter, only to come alive again in spring. And every passing year brings changes, some of them obvious, the turning points of human events, and some of them so subtle you don't even notice until the change is irreversible and you find yourself caught up in events you should have seen coming all along._

 _The Greeks had a view of history that was like a great story, a meta-narrative that encompassed everything and everyone in a series of fore-ordained events; I wonder if they predicted their own downfall, or if that was somehow left out of the divine plan._

 _The Hebrews believed that because history is circular it cancels itself out. Events of the past become the present, and the present will soon be the future. History, the great dissembler, ceases to exist. How can it exist, in fact, when the Assyrians become the Babylonians, who in turn transform into Romans, who then become Hitler's Nazis in an endless cycle of conquest and subjugation?_

 _I have to hand it to those Hebrews: they're a plucky lot. Even when they know what's coming, they accept it, and then get down to the business of surviving._

 _There was a time, when I was younger, when gentile philosophers refused to believe the Hebrews and fashioned history in a waveform, the cresting peaks signifying major events, the deepening troughs periods of humdrum mundanity._

 _I can't agree, for the waveform is too regular and makes no account for the unexpected._

 _Christopher Columbus sets out to find the Far East, a new world where rivers flow with gold, silk, and spice, a paradise of trade with Europe, riches promised to the victor. He finds a new world all right, but there's no gold, no silk, no spices, and no dark-skinned eastern maidens waiting with open arms. But all the countries of Western Europe make their claim and the venture goes into the history books not as a worthy project gone wrong, but as a great new discovery, a triumph of miscalculation and human ignorance._

 _Four hundred years later, a cruise liner bangs into an ice-berg. There've been plenty of shipwrecks, hundreds of them, throughout history, but none like this. The Titanic goes down, two thousand people die, and the whole sorry affair goes into the books as a tragedy of miscalculation and human hubris._

 _Like I said, a rum thing._

 _All these Modernists nowadays, they would make us believe that history is linear, always in a straight line, no variance in the pattern and no distinction between events._

 _Nope! As if they could make anyone believe that the discovery of the Rosetta Stone is any different from World War I or the invention of the light-bulb and the telegraph wire._

 _But I digress; you must forgive me, it is a habit of the old to wander down long, half-forgotten trails of thought and speech._

 _This is my history, or at least a part of it, and it has many limbs and branches. Some of it I experienced myself, some of it was told to me by others, and some I only know through intuition and conjecture, verified by the things I have seen. It is an impossible tale, full of twists and turns, and many accidental occurrences that changed the outcome, and one I would not believe were it not mine._

 _But it is, and I write it now, to bring the events of those times to a close. This story will never be in the history books, confined to the recesses of myth, like alchemy and the unicorn._

 _But the medievals believed in the unicorn. Perhaps there is someone who will believe the tale I now tell._

* * *

Chapter 1: Venture

"Milan, Captain. It's beautiful this time of year."

"What?!" Captain Haddock spluttered, upsetting his coffee cup and splattering droplets all over the immediate vicinity.

Tintin looked up from his newspaper innocently. "Problem?" he inquired politely.

Captain Haddock frowned in answer, ineffectually dabbling at the new coffee stains on his favorite jersey. "No, lad," replied, somewhat tersely, "coffee's a bit hot, that's all." Irritably, he rang the bell. "Although, you could warn me before bringing up _that_ topic again."

Tintin smiled and went back to perusing the paper. Nestor entered bearing a silver servo, which he proffered to the Captain without batting an eye at the spilled coffee. Nestor was ever so professional in that way. The Captain grumpily rifled through the mail on the servo while his butler dabbed at the mess with a spare napkin. With a grunt, the Captain flipped a large, official-looking envelope across the table. It sailed through the air and landed neatly on Tintin's empty plate. Startled, Tintin looked up, once again marveling at the Captain's aim.

"Addressed to you," the Captain muttered, gesturing vaguely at the envelope.

Tintin picked it up, looking it over carefully before slitting it open with his pocketknife. He pulled out several crisp sheets of paper, unfolded and pressed them flat on the table, and began to read.

A minute or two passed. Nestor finished cleaning up the spilled coffee and made a discreet exact. Under the table, Snowy scratched his ear noisily. At long last, Tintin finished his reading and leaned back in his chair with a very thoughtful expression on his face.

"All right, lad," the Captain said in his no-nonsense voice, "out with it."

Tintin cocked an eyebrow, but obliged. "It's from the International Archeological Society," he supplied. "They claim to have made a remarkable discovery somewhere up north, Greenland I think." He checked the letter again. "Yes, Greenland. Somewhere above Baffin Bay. And they'd like me to come up and cover the story."

"Really?" the Captain asked, munching his toast idly. "Odd that they wouldn't ask the local rag to write it up."

"They said it's important, and they want someone a little more high-profile," Tintin replied. "I really should be flattered by the request."

"Probably a hoax," the Captain grunted, "an excuse to get you out of your well-earned retirement."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "It's not retirement, Captain, it's a change of career. There's a difference."

"Whatever you say, Tintin." The Captain waved a hand. "You stick to your guns, and don't let anybody draw you into another wild goose chase. I've had enough of chasing around the globe, trying to keep you out of trouble."

Tintin smiled his thinking smile and rubbed his chin contemplatively. "On the other hand," he ventured, "we've been stuck at Marlinspike ever since that affair down in San Theodoros. Perhaps a change of scenery would do us good."

"Dashing about in the snow and chasing after a bunch of doddering old archeologists who go ga-ga over a shard of pottery? Not on your life!" The Captain slumped back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest, confident in his authority.

"Oh, come on, Captain, nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Why is it that every time you say that, I regret it?"

Tintin smiled again, his scheming smile this time. "You know, Signora Castafiore is performing at La Scala next week," he said, tossing the newspaper to his friend, "and I'm sure she would be glad to see us there for her triumphant return to the European stage."

A look of pure terror had the Captain's eyes nearly bugging out of his head. "When do we leave?" he asked, standing quickly and nearly upsetting the coffee pot again. Snowy barked and shot out from under the table; the Captain had accidentally kicked him in his clumsy haste.

"For Milan?"

"No, lad," the Captain nearly shouted. "For Greenland."

Tintin smiled yet again, this time his winning smile. "Right now," he answered, and dashed upstairs to pack his bags.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they were at the station, awaiting a train to the nearest port city. The Captain mumbled to himself distractedly and checked his wristwatch every few seconds. After what seemed the hundredth time, Tintin put a hand on his wrist to stop him.

"Calm down, Captain," he said, "it's just a little trip up to Greenland to look at an archeological dig, and we'll be back home before you know it."

The conductor blew his whistle at that moment, the signal to board, and Tintin and the Captain were caught up in the crowd of boarders. Tintin had tucked Snowy under his arm to prevent his wandering away or getting lost, and the little dog barked and nipped whenever a passerby came too close. The crowd surged forward, the tearful goodbyes, shouted orders, and clatter of luggage carts filling their ears with the cacophonous thrill of travel. Tintin loved this moment, the first buzz of incipient adventure under the otherwise humdrum noises of a busy train station.

They boarded quickly, making their way to a carriage as the train began to move out of the station and pick up speed. After some bumps and adjusting to the motion, in which Snowy barked again in annoyance at being jostled, they found themselves in a compartment already occupied by a very thin gentleman of indeterminate age in a long, green overcoat. A shapeless hat was pulled low over his head, hiding his face. Tintin nodded politely to this personage and sat, letting Snowy curl up on the seat beside him. The Captain sat down on the opposite bench and immediately slouched back in the seat, letting his cap slip down over his eyes.

They journeyed in silence for several hours, until the train slowed and blew a long call on its horn, indicating the proximity of their destination. With a screech of overtaxed brakes on the rails, they gradually came to a stop, and the thin gentleman hopped up and exited the compartment without so much as a nod or a goodbye.

"Odd customer, that one," the Captain remarked when he had gone.

Tintin eyed the doorframe, as if it would tell him something about their silent fellow traveler. "Wonder who he was," he finally said, before standing and tucking Snowy under his arm again. The dog had fallen asleep on the ride and wasn't too pleased at being awoken. Bags in hand, they stopped onto the platform.

A sign above the door into the station read 'Bruges-Zeebrugge: Home of Belgium's Largest Fisheries', as if the distinction was a desirable one. They ignored it and strode through in search of the port master's office.

It wasn't long before they found it, located in a grungy building a few minutes' walk away from the station. They procured tickets for two berths on the _Marie-Claire_ , a French-crewed trawler setting sail for Greenland the next day. With their travel plans finalized, they spent the night in a small hotel, prepared to rise early the next morning.

Tintin lay on his bed, sleep still eluding him. The picture of their traveling companion danced before his eyes, taunting him. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, though whether it was his figure or the air of purposeful ambiguity he couldn't tell. With a sigh, Tintin rolled over, letting the sound of the squeaky overhead fan lull him to sleep.

* * *

Tintin rose early the next morning, determined to exercise Snowy before disembarking. The morning air was damp and foggy, as if the cosmos had decided to place a veil between the world and everything in it. Brothers appeared as strangers, and friends obscure as foes in the shrouding mist. Twice Tintin had to call Snowy back to prevent losing the little dog. Apparently, Snowy knew something was up, for he was in a rare mood, jumping and barking and nipping at Tintin's coat hem. Snowy was intelligent and well-behaved, most of the time, but even he had trouble reigning in his excitement.

They walked along the docks, Tintin trying to peer through the fog and read the names of the ships in port. The _Marie-Claire_ they saw first, her decks already busy with final preparations before setting sail. The others had names in several different languages, many of them Finnish or Norwegian in origin. Tintin loved exploring seaports, even in poor weather, even when his explorations resulted in kidnappings. Or not. There had been a few worrisome incidents, all of them contributing to his recent change of occupation. It was odd, he reflected; he was barely out of his teens and he'd made a successful career as a reporter, only to have it all backfire into the media circus that was San Theodoros and force him to back away from journalism for an indefinite period to focus on something else.

Tintin's attention was wrenched back to the present by Snowy's persistent yipping. They'd reached the end of the dock and the sun was cresting above the horizon, already striving to burn away the fog. There was a bench in front of them, one of those tourist things set there for people who had time to sit and watch. A man sat on the bench, a man that Tintin recognized. It was the thin stranger from the train. He was without his hat, and his unruly auburn hair waved in the light breeze off the harbor.

Tintin sat down, letting Snowy sniff and wander at his feet. "Hello," he said cheerfully.

The stranger looked up quickly, as if startled. He was younger than Tintin had first thought, probably about thirty, with wide green eyes above smooth-shaven cheeks. "You're Tintin, aren't you?" he said. "The reporter."

It was Tintin's turn to be startled, though he should have been used to it. "Ex-reporter," he said quickly, then skillfully deflected further questions. "You were in our compartment on the train yesterday."

"Yes," the other replied simply. "That can happen sometimes: two people, headed in the same direction, meet each other on a bus, a train. A boat, even." There was a brief pause. "Where are you headed?" he asked suddenly.

Tintin shifted uncomfortably, but felt he had no reason to lie. "Greenland."

"Ah, the country so disingenuously named you wonder if its first settlers weren't blind or delusional. Or both. What business takes you to Greenland?"

"I could ask you the same," Tintin replied, more sharply than was perhaps polite.

The other raised his eyebrows, but answered pleasantly enough. "I go to Greenland in search of a story. There are legends, in my family, passed down through generations, that have to do with Greenland." He rubbed his hands together, long fingers twitching restlessly. "Who knows? I may find the truth there."

"So you've heard of the International Archeological Society's find?"

"That's a big mouthful to say, isn't it?" the stranger retorted. "Yes, I've heard of it. And I'm interested in seeing it, whatever it is, from a historian's perspective."

Tintin thought this through for a moment, then made up his mind. He stuck a hand out to the stranger, inviting an introduction. "Well sir," he said, "you know my name, but I've yet to have the pleasure of learning yours. And if we're sailing to Greenland together, we ought to start off on the correct foot."

The other looked him up and down, once, twice, then grasped his hand firmly and shook it. "Hoffmann. Angus Hoffmann."

"Of the University of Amsterdam?" Tintin asked, certain he'd heard the name before.

"Yes, until recently."

"Pleasure to meet you," Tintin replied, then stood and called for Snowy. At that moment, a foghorn sounded from the direction of the _Marie-Claire_. With a wave of his hand, Tintin left, Snowy padding along in his wake, leaving their new acquaintance to shrug more tightly into his long coat and follow at a discreet distance.

* * *

"Well, I've met our introverted friend from yesterday," Tintin announced when he reached the cabin he and Haddock were to share, dropping his bags on a bunk. He and Snowy had been up on deck when the _Marie-Claire_ set sail, and had spent a good hour afterward exploring the trawler. She was of a modest size, well-kept, with a hull of steel and a sharp prow for breaking up any potential pack-ice they might sail into. Now, with Bruges-Zeebrugge long since swallowed into the fog and the voyage ahead, Tintin felt it was time to settle in.

"And I've been speaking to the Captain of this tub," his friend replied. "Or at least trying to speak to him. French fellow, barely speaks a word of English. It's all ' _Monsieur'_ this, and ' _pour mon âme_ ' that, and no getting a word in edge-wise." The Captain sighed a rubbed a hand over his beard. He could read French, when necessary, but English would always be his preference. "Enough to drive a strong man to drink. If only he could stomach it."

"Oh, forget about that, Captain," Tintin broke in before the Captain could drop into one of his dark moods; they usually followed talk of alcohol. "Our friend from the train yesterday; I thought I recognized him from somewhere. His name is Angus Hoffmann, and he's also headed for Greenland."

The Captain raised his eyebrows quizzically; clearly the name was ringing no bells.

"Angus Hoffmann," Tintin repeated, "the noted historian and expert on Viking culture. He made his name by serving as chief historian for a number of archeological digs, the ones that center on Viking burial grounds."

"Whatever you say, lad."

Tintin ignored the tone of this pronouncement and kept going. "He's had his reputation called into question lately though; something about some rather wild claims regarding Viking presence in really unreachable places. Maybe he's trying to keep a low-profile on this trip."

"In which case, you might like him. But, as I was saying, while trying to get 'round the Captain's incessant French, I did learn that we're sailing in to Kulusuk."

"And where's that?" Tintin asked excitedly.

"Southeastern coast. We're gonna' have a long trek across country to get to the spot."

Tintin frowned. "Why can't we just sail up into the bay itself?"

"Too dangerous," the Captain replied. "There's a massive glacier—it's practically a river of ice—that births several thousand icebergs into Baffin Bay every year. Sailing a ship up into that is just asking to be capsized by a calving iceberg." The Captain gestured dramatically with his hands and Tintin understood. "Besides, what with the ice constantly moving, there isn't a proper harbor or town in the bay, just a few small fishing villages."

Tintin nodded, then crossed his arms. "Wait a minute, Captain," he said. "How on earth do you know all this?"

The Captain looked offended. "Tintin," he said, in a reproving tone, "anybody who's ever sailed the North Atlantic knows that, and if they don't, they shouldn't be sailing. That would be like you trying to get into the Middle East right now for a story: you could do it, easily, but you know better, 'cause it's just asking for trouble."

At that moment, the ship's bell rang out and heavy footfalls pounded past in the corridor outside their door.

"Thundering typhoons, what is that racket?" the Captain shouted, opening the door and poking his head out.

Tintin leaped up and pulled on his jacket. "You said the word, Captain: asking for trouble." With that, he followed the Captain out into the corridor, Snowy waddling happily along behind.

* * *

 **A/N: For the disclaimer I forgot to give above, Tintin and company belong to the folks at Moulinsart, but Angus is all mine. The crossover aspect of this fic will begin in Chapter 2. Updates will be weekly to unpredictable, depending on how well this is received. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2: Meeting

**A/N: This is where the actual crossing over occurs, so please don't get confused. Also, How to Train Your Dragon belongs to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation.** **I'm posting this chapter now because I'm leaving tomorrow for vacation and I don't want to make anybody have to wait all weekend for a new chapter.**

 **Also, big thank you to the four readers who have reviewed it so far. Guest and Guest: your ideas are tons of fun, and made me laugh quite a bit. Something may come of them in the future, albeit in a slightly altered form. More on that after you read this chapter. So, without further ado (or "further adieu," as Ruff and Tuff would say) . . .**

* * *

Chapter 2: Meeting

"Okay, that's . . . big."

"How did they do that?"

Hiccup frowned at her, as if surprised that she would ask such an obvious question. "How am I supposed to know?" he said, answering her question with one of his own.

And truly, he didn't know how such a thing was possible, for he had no frame of reference for what he saw, no prior experience with anything like it. He'd been training dragons for the better part of four years, he'd brought down the Red Death, and every day it seemed he discovered something new on his travels, but this, this was beyond even his wildest imaginings.

He circled around a few times in the sky, Toothless obedient to his hesitation; Stormfly and Meatlug followed, taking their cues from the Night Fury.

They were on a long exploratory trip that had taken them farther west than ever before, in search of new dragons to study and, eventually, train. It was all because of the Dragon Eye really: a completely accidental mixture of Nadder and Night Fury flame (Fishlegs didn't even want to know how that had happened) had revealed even more maps, all of them pointing west, far beyond even the Great Beyond. But it had taken a long time to convince Stoick that the trip was a good idea; with his inevitable retirement drawing ever nearer, he was reluctant to let the Hope and Heir of the Hooligan tribe wander too far outside of his exploratory borders. But with the help of Gothi's approval and more than a little persuasion from Gobber, they had prevailed. Stoick had sent them off with a stern warning to be back on time, without starting a war.

Not starting a war was the easy part; getting back on time would remain to be seen. For the moment, Hiccup, Astrid, and Fishlegs were content to just look at the spectacle laid out on the ground below them.

It was a town, but more than a town; a city, in fact, stretching as far into the distance as they could see. From above, they could see the dark shadows of people in its streets, the shapes of doors and windows marking where houses stood, and other unmistakable signs of habitation. It was a perfect diorama of survival in a harsh climate, man's dominion over his environment.

And the whole city was carved out of ice.

It was located in a glacier, centuries old, miles deep, and packed tight. They'd flown over it most of the day, but stopped when they found the city, pausing at the sheer magnitude of the feat and the audacity of those who had accomplished it. Whoever they were.

Below the glacier's wind-swept surface, buildings, statues, and columns rose in fantastically contorted imitations of stone and wood, every surface marvelously decorated. Crystal towers rose in the middle of arenas hollowed out of the glacier's many-layered skin, pointing to the sky above like flowers that reached for the sun.

But there could be no flowers in such a place, nor trees, nor grass, dirt, and stone. There was only ice, stretching beyond the edge of the horizon. It was a world of harsh beauty, of exquisite, unending warfare between man and the elements.

Astrid sucked in a breath sharply and pointed downward, drawing Hiccup's attention to an icy structure immediately below them. It was larger than the others, wider and taller, many-windowed and bearing the marks of a communal hall or chieftain's dwelling. An open space lay before it, from which many narrow streets and walkways branched off to other parts of the city. Within the open space, a small crowd had gathered, dark figures against glimmering white and icy blue, watching silently.

Hiccup led the way, directing Toothless downward until the three dragons landed together in the center of the square. The crowd edged away, giving them room, but made no move either to attack or to run. They only stared curiously.

With one hand raised high and the other held out before him in the gesture of peace, Hiccup approached the small group, and spoke.

"Greetings," he said, maintaining a carefully-measured tone. "May I ask, what is this place?"

Behind him, Astrid and Fishlegs scanned the crowd carefully, watching for threatening reactions. A few people whispered with their heads together, or drew small children out of sight behind them. Finally, one man, larger than the rest with a long, fair beard, stepped forward.

"This is Ísaland," he said, "and we, the Ice Diggers, welcome you." He spoke Norse, thickly accented but intelligible. "I am Igdir the Cold, chief of this place." Without warning, he stepped forward and grasped Hiccup's hand in his own, squeezing it firmly in a gesture of greeting.

Hiccup returned the gesture, then surreptitiously wiggled his fingers to restore the feeling. "Hiccup Haddock," he said. "And these are my friends, Astrid Hofferson and Fishlegs Ingermann." He indicated the others behind him. "We come from the island of Berk."

"Berk?" Igdir mused, rolling the word off his tongue as if it tasted strangely. "And your winged friends? It has been many a year since dragons appeared on our horizons, and never before have we seen folk riding them."

Hiccup hid his surprise with a small bow and gave a discrete sign with his hand; the dragons trotted forward, Meatlug smiling, Stormfly preening, and Toothless warbling with his teeth retracted. "It is the hope of our chief, Stoick the Vast," he said, straightening, "that the folk of Ísaland will join us in alliance with the dragons."

Igdir's eyebrows rose, disappearing under his thick fringe of blond hair. "It seems we have much to discuss," he said. "You will stay with us? I would hear more of Berk and your dragons." He cast his eyes over all three dragons, his gaze lingering on Toothless.

"And I would hear more of your city and people," Hiccup replied evenly.

"Then come." Igdir turned and gestured toward the large structure behind him. "Tonight we shall feast and tell tales. Fridda, send word to the cooks. Bento, make beds ready for our guests."

He strode off toward the hall, still shouting orders, while Hiccup and his companions walked behind him. People had begun to move at Igdir's command, but still a group remained behind, watching with wide eyes and frozen faces as their strange guests entered the hall of the Ísalanders.

* * *

That night, they feasted at Igdir's hospitality and exchanged their tales of training dragons for the history of Ísaland and its people eking out a difficult existence on the surface of a glacier.

The food was strange, mushrooms of fantastic colors and unfamiliar funguses that tasted of foreign air and water. There was roasted fish as well, comfortingly warm and familiar in such strange surroundings. Igdir's hall was wide and spacious, with several openings in the ceiling; Igdir explained to them that these could be closed with blocks of ice in the event of a storm. The floor below was covered with furs, on which everyone sat together, for there were no tables.

Bitter ale flowed through their veins and the cold flames of carefully-shielded braziers danced in their eyes, lighting but not warming. Surrounded by his children and grandchildren, Igdir told them his people's history, a tale so strange that he held his listeners rapt with every word.

"Long ago and far away across the sea, my people lived in the West, in a land of frozen fjords and impenetrable ice, where the seas made war on the land, with ice and snow as their weapons. During a winter of great suffering, the gods desired to walk over all the earth, so they froze the sea and made of it a bridge between the realms. My people in the West, fearing the tread of the gods upon their soil, crossed the sea in a long march and found this land under the dominion of the ice.

They claimed it for their own, and set about conquering it. They carved the first of this city far to the east of here, and set themselves up as kings of the ice, defying even the gods their dominion over this realm. But the gods were angered, and declared war upon the people. Many died of starvation, or in the storms that raged on the surface of the glacier.

But then the winged ones came, messengers of peace from the gods in their mercy. They brought gifts to my people, of fish and fire and the mushrooms that grow in the cold and ice. And for a time there was peace."

Hiccup stirred, as if he wished to interrupt, but Astrid laid a hand on his knee, bidding him keep silent. Igdir continued with his recitation.

"But war with the gods had left my people with a taste for blood; the ice is harsh and animals are scarce, so they hunted each other. A faction broke away from the tribe and began to carve their own city farther to the west, near the edge of the land. There is more fish there, and for a time they prospered. Their own city grew as they carved eastward and began to encroach upon their neighbors. Then there were meetings between both groups, and territorial disputes, then skirmishes, and finally, war.

War between men, more vicious than with the gods. The winged ones, friends of both gods and men, fought on both sides and there was much destruction. The ice was stained red with blood and the bodies were buried under the snow. Then the gods sent a great storm, in which the opposing armies could not see to return to their own cities. Lost in the blinding snow and wind, they found shelter where they could.

When the storm ended and the sky cleared, the armies awoke to find themselves mingled in both cities, enemies sheltering in each other's arms. Peace was made and the twin cities joined in one tribe.

The war was many generations ago, and there has been peace since then. But the troubles of my people did not abate. On the western edge of the glacier, where the world ends and the ice meets the sea, the glacier falls into the water in mountains of ice that float away we know not where. So it was one summer; the glacier cracked and the westernmost edge of the city fell into the sea. Many people were lost that day; those who were left fled east, fearing for their lives. They continued to flee, carving the city ever eastward and always living in new-made dwellings, for it is death to live on the surface.

But still the glacier falls, and now we know that this surface on which we built our homes, which once we thought solid and immovable, is not. It is a river, a great river of ice that flows slowly and unremittingly into the sea. We cannot escape our doom, so always we carve eastward, in hopes that someday we may reach the sun."

Here Hiccup did interrupt. "Couldn't you travel somewhere else? Get off the ice somehow?"

Igdir looked at him with a sad smile. "If only it were that simple. The bridges between the realms have long since melted, and men cannot long survive on the surface of the ice. We can only carve onward."

"But what of the dragons? Could you not fly with them?"

There was a pause, then Igdir breathed a heavy sigh. "When the city began to fall into the sea, the winged ones left us. The fish had grown scarce then. Perhaps they hungered for meat, or perhaps they feared that they too would be lost. We have not seen them in Ísaland since my childhood. They are long since gone."

Silence fell, the guests thinking over Igdir's tale. Then Fishlegs spoke. "How quickly does the river flow?" he asked.

"No man knows that, but dozens of ice-mountains fall into the sea every day, faster than my people can carve."

Fishlegs nodded, frowning slightly. Hiccup and Astrid could practically hear the gears clicking in his active brain. Wind whistled around the sharp corners of ice, softening them by slow degrees. Fire crackled in a brazier, and two of Igdir's grandsons began to scuffle on the floor. Igdir stood and clapped his hands. "Bento," he called sharply, "show our guests to their beds." A tall, lanky boy stood up quickly, blinking; he had dozed off during the story, one he had heard on many occasions. Igdir turned to his guests one final time. "Sleep well, my friends," he said. "Tomorrow we shall speak more."

Their beds were little more than fur-lined alcoves hollowed out of the walls of the main hall. Hiccup, Astrid, and Fishlegs laid themselves down to sleep with their dragons in front of them. Lulled by the wind and the fire and the rustling of bodies, they slept, dreaming of ice and war.

* * *

 **A/N: From here on out, this fic will alternate between two distinct timelines centuries apart. Should that change in the future, I will make it abundantly clear. Also, so far this fic has had a teeny-tiny, little readership. I don't normally ask for reviews, but I've already put a lot of work into writing this and I don't want it to feel like a complete waste of time. So, if you like it, please let me know. If there are things I could do better, please let me know. If you hate it and think it really is a waste of time . . . you get the picture. And those of you who have a lot of friends and contacts on this website, please spread the word. Let's see if we can build some support for this thing. Thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3: Surprise

Chapter 5:

 _Ding-ding, ding-ding_ . . . . The bell tolled with insistent clamor, calling the curious or the obliged to the source of the trouble. Tintin and the Captain found themselves caught in a press of bodies, able seamen fighting to get through the crowd of confused passengers. All eyes strained toward the prow, where the _Marie-Claire_ 's captain bellowed orders in rapid and agitated French.

"Just like old times, eh Captain?" Tintin smirked, elbowing his friend in the ribs. The Captain glared, but said nothing, too focused on shouldering a path through the crowd. Tintin followed in his wake like a small tugboat after a steamer.

They reached the prow before anyone else, and gaped at the sight that met their eyes. A long, green overcoat whipped stiffly in the wind while its owner clung to the railing, his arms shaking and toes nearly dragging in the sea. Weak cries of "Help, help," drifted back to the listeners over the spray of the sea and the chug of the engines.

"Blue blistering barnacles," the Captain gasped, his eyes wide. He took only one moment to express his astonishment, though, for in the next second he was moving. Bracing his knees against the railing, he reached over and grasped the stranger by the arms, lifting him up and over in a smooth motion. Then, overbalanced, he slipped backwards on the wet decks and both rescuer and rescued tumbled over and landed in a heap. Tintin rushed forward to help them up, the stranger smoothing his coat in embarrassment and the Captain swearing loudly with his own peculiar brand of profanity.

"Ten thousand thundering typhoons," he spluttered, "what were ya' thinking, ya' nincompoop?"

The other reddened, freckled skin darkening. "I do beg your pardon," he said, "but I slipped."

Tintin watched the exchange with a grin creeping over his features. The situation wasn't funny, he knew, but the Captain's reactions always were. Especially when the man was irritated.

"We're at sea, you addle-brained nitwit! It's no time to be dozing off and not watching your step, you'll hurt somebody!"

At that moment, the Captain made to stride purposefully back to his quarters, having delivered the last word. Unfortunately, he didn't notice Snowy prancing excitedly at his feet. The Captain tripped and went down with a pronounced _thump_.

The stranger looked down at him with one eyebrow sardonically raised. "I'll be heading back to my cabin then, shall I?" he said and made to walk away, but Tintin stopped him.

"Captain," he said, helping his friend up, "this is Dr. Angus Hoffmann, of the University of Amsterdam. Dr. Hoffmann, may I present my good friend, Captain Archibald Haddock?"

Dr. Hoffmann started at the name, but covered his astonishment smoothly. He reached a hand out and grasped the Captain's firmly, conveying easy gentility in his voice. "Pleased to meet you, Captain," he said, smiling. "You wouldn't by any chance be related to the Hastings Haddocks, would you?"

The Captain shook his head. "No, I'm a northerner, just like my daddy, and his daddy, and his daddy."

"I think that's enough family history to be going on," Tintin interrupted, leading the way back to the _Marie-Claire_ 's block of cabins. Dr. Hoffmann followed them quietly.

They sat down at the small fold-out table in their cabin and drew up a chair for their guest. Dr. Hoffmann sat down gingerly, keeping his overcoat wrapped around him tightly. He was, Tintin decided, completely unassuming, embarrassed even, as if he disliked being the center of attention. Strange for a man who had been lauded as a brilliant scholar and promising university lecturer.

"So, Dr. Hoffmann," Tintin began, but their guest leaned forward uncomfortably.

"Please," he said, "I am no longer a professor. Call me Angus."

"Angus, eh?" the Captain rumbled. "Let me guess: you're from the Channel Islands."

"As it happens, no. I'm a native of Norway, as you're from the north of England and Tintin here is from Brussels, originally. But a man's origin isn't nearly as important as his destination, don't you think?"

The Captain harrumphed and muttered something about incomprehensibility, but Tintin was intrigued. "So the fact that the three of us are on the way to Greenland right now is more important than where each of us came from?"

"For the present, yes."

"But you're a historian," Tintin argued. "Surely you agree that someone's origins directly contribute to his destination."

"Certainly. But two men from the same roots can find themselves in completely different circumstances. Perhaps you know this, Captain?"

The Captain frowned. "Aahh, blistering barnacles, I'm not followin' ya'," he said, crossing his arms grumpily.

"No matter," Angus conceded. "What I mean to say, is that where we're going is more important than where we're coming from."

Tintin leaned forward; the conversation had taken a strange turn. "When we spoke of our destination this morning," he ventured, "you said you were looking for the truth."

Angus blinked and something flickered in his eyes. "And you said you're no longer a reporter," he said, addressing Tintin. "But if you found the right story, would you consider returning to your former profession?"

"Maybe."

Angus drummed his fingers on the table, fidgeting. "There's an old tale in my family, more of a legend really, about Vikings and dragons and conquests. Bit unbelievable, actually."

"And there was something about Greenland, you said," Tintin prompted. The Captain raised an eyebrow at him, but he forestalled speech with a hand. "You can tell us your story."

"You'll laugh," Angus objected.

"Only if it's really funny," the Captain warned.

"Okay, then you won't believe me."

"Whether we do or not," Tintin ventured, "you lose nothing by telling us. I'm no longer a journalist" —the Captain snorted, but Tintin continued— "and the Captain isn't interested in academics. So we can't hurt your reputation any more by listening to what you have to say. And if I don't believe your story, I don't publish it. Deal?" He held out a hand, silently encouraging the other to trust him.

Angus bit his lip, thinking about it. After some moments of silence he seemed to take courage, and shook the proffered hand firmly. "All right, all right, I'll tell you." He set his hands on the table, fingers laced together, and began.

"Many hundreds of years ago, the islands in the Norwegian Sea were populated by Vikings, small tribes spread out across the hunks of rock that stuck up out of the water. You realize that a part of the world is just below the Arctic Circle, difficult to survive in, especially if you're on your own and not friends with neighboring tribes. As far as Vikings go, these were fairly typical, hardy folk, sailors and sea-farers with stubbornness issues. They could very easily have sailed south to the British Isles, but they didn't. They stayed put for some reason."

"Fancy that, a bunch of home-bodies," the Captain mused, but Tintin hushed him quickly.

"There were legends," Angus continued, "passed down in their folklore, that some of them had learned to fly dragons, or something like dragons."

"You've gotta' be kidding me," the Captain scoffed.

Angus studiously ignored him. "Whether it's true is anybody's guess. They could've been birds, maybe. I don't know, but Viking art from the period features winged creatures that appear to breathe fire. I mean, we are talking paintings, carvings, architecture, metal-work. You name it, they made it." He was speaking passionately and gesturing eloquently with his hands.

Tintin looked up, suddenly realizing. "This is why you chose to specialize in Viking history, isn't it?" he asked.

Angus nodded slowly. "My family came from one of those tribes up north. No idea which one, but I do know that there were Haddocks in my family a long time ago. That's why I asked about the name, you see."

"But you didn't learn all of this from a family myth," the Captain pointed out.

"No," Angus reflected, "much of this information comes from my research. I wrote my dissertation on Viking migration patterns, by the way. I took an interest in the dragon legends about four years ago, after I began studying Viking art in depth. There was a map, apparently, that someone in my family put together to chart every island and landmass they discovered and explored. It's long since lost, but there are plenty of examples of dragon iconography elsewhere." He reached into his coat and pulled a battered notebook from a hidden pocket. Opening it to a page somewhere near the middle, he folded out several sheets that had been pasted together. All were covered with sketches and graphs written in graphite, as if on the go with a pencil. Several were badly smudged, but Angus pointed significantly to a sheet near the middle. "Here," he said, indicating a sketch of a beautifully-carved ship's prow. "A tracing from an archeological find in northwestern Denmark. The symbol is a dragon's head. And here," he moved his hand across the page to a drawing that resembled little more than a misshapen lump, "a reproduction of a piece found on the southernmost tip of Greenland."

Tintin studied it for a moment, frowning. "But this proves nothing," he finally said, mystified.

Angus smiled slightly and rotated the drawing to the right. "Look again," he said.

Both Tintin and the Captain leaned down over the smudged notebook and examined it more closely. "Crumbs!" Tintin exclaimed after a few moments. "That's remarkable."

It was a map, but such a map as neither of them had ever seen. It depicted a large landmass surrounded by impossible seas, but the land itself was in the shape of a giant winged beast, with a broad head and almost triangular body. It was Greenland, its telltale shape and the proximity to northern Canada easily apparent, though the map was old and fancifully illustrated.

"Humph," the Captain grumped, "bunch of mumbo-jumbo."

"See here," Angus pointed out, ignoring him, "the dragon faces to the west, which contradicts the usual pattern of migration at the time. It was much easier to sail south: there was good land to the south, oceanic currents drifted to the south, so why not go south? Because when you're flying, it doesn't matter which way the currents drift. You can go anywhere, south, north, east, west, up, down. And you can get there faster."

"I read your theory about western migrations, Angus," Tintin said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "You wrote that Greenland served as a bridge between northwestern Europe and the arctic regions of northern Canada, a stopping-point as it were. But your theory was derided in the academic community."

"Because Greenland is so inhospitable and it would be nearly impossible to haul Viking ships across the ice. And nobody wants to believe that dragons existed, let alone that humans rode them. The academic community is partly right, but I'm not wholly wrong."

Tintin exchanged a meaningful glance with the Captain. "So, this archeological dig in Greenland; just what do you hope to find there?"

Angus carefully folded up the pages, closed the notebook, and tucked it back into his pocket. "Proof that there's credence to my theory. I don't expect to find evidence of dragons there; that would be unprecedented. But evidence of Vikings in central or western Greenland would be a step in the right direction."

Silence fell, as the small cabin's occupants thought through what they had heard. Beneath them, the _Marie-Claire_ rocked gently in the swell. Snowy scratched his ears and sniffed the air, hoping for chicken or ball. The bell for lunch _dinged_ softly in the distance.

"Well," Tintin said, breaking the silence, "it's an interesting theory, to be sure. If you do find anything, I'd like to be the first to know."

Angus smiled as if in relief. "Rest assured of that," he replied, shaking Tintin's hand enthusiastically as he rose. "I must thank you, gentlemen, for your time and" — bowing slightly to the Captain — "for the rescue. I'm sure we shall be seeing more of each other on the voyage."

"I have no doubt," Tintin replied, ushering their guest out the door and closing it firmly behind. He stood for a moment, listening as Angus's footsteps dwindled down the corridor; he almost thought he could hear the man humming to himself. When he turned back to the table, the Captain had remained seated with his arms crossed, a look of incredulity on his face.

"You do realize he's stark, raving mad," he said without preamble.

Tintin raised his eyebrows expressively. "I don't think so," he replied, "but this trip is already turning more interesting than I thought it would be. Archeological digs, icebergs, and now dragons."

"Don't go getting any big ideas," the Captain warned, raising a finger.

That was just asking for trouble. Tintin smiled sweetly; he had lots of smiles, but this one was the most persuasive. It had never failed on the Captain. "But my ideas are always big."

"Yes, and they're not always good."

"Well, here's an idea: lunch?"

"Thought you'd never ask, lad."

* * *

 **A/N: It has to be said, the Captain has all the best reactions and body gags in the books. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4: Discovery

**A/N: My apologies for delaying this chapter. I started working full-time a few weeks ago, and the new job cut massively into my time for writing. Also, I recently read _The Hunger Games_ trilogy for the first time and my imagination has been rather occupied with the varying adventures of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. There might be a future fanfic in this. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter; things are moving . . . **

* * *

Chapter 4: Discovery

The morning dawned cold and foggy, a chill mist rising off some unseen body of water to shroud the icy city in a blanket of grey. Hiccup rubbed his hands together to wake up his circulation, blowing on the tips of his fingers in a vain attempt to warm them. He and Toothless were up early, waking at the first sign of cold, blue light penetrating through the murky dark. They tiptoed quietly out through the doors, weaving their way between the prone sleepers on the fur-covered floor and ducking under the low lintel. Hiccup straightened, casting a glance over his shoulder to check for disturbances.

When he turned, it was with a jolt of surprise. Astrid stood in front of him, hands on hips and Stormfly peering over her head with one slitted yellow eye.

"And where do you think you're sneaking off to?" she asked, her voice low.

"Just exploring," he replied.

"Not alone, I hope."

"Not now. Coming with us, milady?"

"It's about time you asked."

They glided over the city together, hugging the surface and letting the dragons set their own pace. It was quiet, but here and there movement stirred in the dark streets as people rose and went about their work. Directly behind them, the sun was beginning to rise from the east like a great blurry disk of pale, hard light.

Hiccup scanned the ground below him, letting his curiosity lead him. Toothless was relaxed, sniffing and warbling from time to time like a giant cat. But Astrid was agitated; Hiccup could see it in her posture, the tilt of her head, the way she glanced over at him frequently, as if waiting for him to speak.

Eventually, prompted by her fidgeting, he broke the silence.

"This place is amazing," he said. "But if there were dragons here before, where have they gone now?"

"I think there's a bigger problem actually, Hiccup," Astrid replied, keeping Stormfly parallel with Toothless so she could speak softly. "These people: how can they possibly live? There are no animals here, nowhere to hunt or graze, no way to raise crops. Come on, they have to melt their water just to drink it. And, come to think of it, how do they keep the fires lit without wood? It's impossible, and I think there's a lot that Igdir's not telling us."

"We can't expect him to share all of his secrets with us just because our dragons haven't attacked anybody. That would be like us showing complete strangers how to train dragons. Nobody would do that. Well, maybe the twins would, but they're supposed to know better."

"And speaking of the twins, do you really trust them not to let Dragon's Edge burn down?"

"Snotlout will look after it."

Astrid rolled her eyes. "Well that just fills me up with confidence."

"And you're a bucket of sunshine this morning. Igdir hasn't given us any reason to doubt his story; not yet, at least."

"There's more to it, Hiccup," Astrid protested. "This place, and that story, there's something not right about it. And you said it yourself, if there were dragons here before, where are they now? Igdir's story raises too many questions."

"What is this, Doubt-fest?" He gestured with a hand, trying to argue a point. "These people aren't like us, we know that, but that doesn't make them hostile. We fought the dragons for generations, simply because we didn't understand them. Let's not do the same here."

She looked at him very seriously. "I just think we should be cautious," she said quietly.

The sun had risen fully, turning the grey of the fog to white and forcing them to fly lower to keep their bearings. The streets beneath them were empty and eerily quiet. Drifted snow filled corners and obscured landmarks in clumps of lumpy white; under the snow, the ice bore the telltale marks of constant wind and motion. Here and there, great crevasses had opened in the surface, penetrating to unimaginable depths, while between them the ice rose in jagged peaks and pillars forced upward by pressure. A chill wind clawed through clothing to bite at exposed skin. Toothless and Stormfly flew onward, though both became increasingly agitated, sensing danger long before their riders.

 _Crack_! The sound broke through the silence with a jolt, followed by the crunching grind of ice against ice. Hiccup urged Toothless forward to investigate, when suddenly the glacier dropped away beneath them to reveal a vast bay of grey, choppy water filled with giant mountains of broken ice that battled for room in the crowded outlet. Above the water, the glacier ended abruptly in a series of wide, jagged cliffs that grinned with the snaggle-toothed horror of grim destruction. Even as they watched, another huge chunk broke off the cliff-face with a wrenching tear and tumbled into the bay with an almighty splash that set the surrounding icebergs bobbing and bouncing against each other.

Astrid shuddered involuntarily; the sight was both grim and awe-inspiring, a battle of the elements fearsome to behold. Hiccup was not oblivious to it, but he was already thinking through the implications, calculating risks and potential outcomes as he circled above the great battlefield of ice and water.

"Well, at least we know that part of Igdir's story was true," he called to Astrid over his shoulder. She responded with an inscrutable look, somewhere between fear and annoyance; he wasn't entirely sure which.

"It's moving, and it's moving quickly," he continued. "How long did we fly over the city before we met Igdir and his people?"

Astrid frowned, thinking. "A day, maybe? And we saw a few people before we landed, but not enough to make up a decent building force; if Igdir's hall is or used to be the center of the city, then the ice is moving much faster than his people can work. And we haven't been in the air that long."

"Not more than an hour, I reckon," Hiccup concurred.

Astrid shifted in the saddle. "Hiccup, we haven't seen enough people to populate this city, let alone build it."

"Igdir said they've been here a long time."

"And I said we shouldn't trust Igdir. And I'm still saying it."

The sky rumbled above them, and dragons and riders looked upward. The sky had darkened since sunrise, clouds gathering to hide the sun. Toothless and Stormfly drifted closer together as the wind picked up, fluttering their wingtips. Lightning flashed in the distance and Toothless tensed.

"It's okay, bud," Hiccup calmed him, patting his head gently. "It's just a little storm, that's all."

"Um, Hiccup, that's not little." Astrid pointed to the bank of clouds gathering overhead. Grey darkened to black, heavy billows of cloud tumbling over each other in the rush to crash on the glacier with the unstoppable force of a cyclone.

"You're right; we should head back. Toothless?"

The dragon whuffed and shot back the way they had come, Stormfly following close behind.

* * *

"Hiccup, Astrid, where have you been? Meatlug and I have been looking everywhere for you."

"It was not wise for you to wander, my friends, even on the backs of dragons. The surface is not safe."

Hiccup and Astrid dismounted quickly, scanning the crowd of faces that surrounded them. Fishlegs was there, and Meatlug, concern written on their features. Towering above them was Igdir, his blonde hair waving in the heavy wind that blew around them. Already, flakes of snow clumped together to drift into the sunken streets.

"A storm comes," Igdir continued. "We must retreat to shelter."

"Yes, and perhaps you wouldn't mind answering a few questions. Like, what are you playing at and how do you expect your people to go on surviving when this glacier ends only a hundred furlongs away?"

Fishlegs squeaked, but Igdir's face hardened. "I cannot speak of these things here. We shall withdraw. Bento, see to our guests' needs."

He retreated into the hall, herding his grandchildren before him. People moved hurriedly through the square, shifting blocks of ice to cover openings in preparation for the coming storm. Fishlegs hurried forward, Meatlug waddling behind him.

"Hiccup," he said urgently, "you'll never guess what Meatlug and I found."

"A new kind of rock for Meatlug to eat?" Hiccup guessed absently, scanning the streets.

"As if," Fishlegs responded sarcastically. "While Meatlug and I were looking all over this place, trying to find you guys, we happened upon something I don't think Igdir wanted us to see."

"What makes you say that?" Astrid asked, looking very pointedly at Hiccup. Stormfly chirped as if in agreement.

"Because he made sure we went back indoors immediately after we found it and wouldn't let us back out again until you came back. Meatlug wasn't exactly happy about being cooped up inside again."

"Permit me, lord Hiccup," a small voice spoke up. It was Bento, the tow-headed, spindly boy they had met the night before. He was some years younger than Hiccup and his friends, but already much taller than everybody except Fishlegs. "Chief Igdir wishes you to join him in his shelter."

"Bento," Hiccup replied, turning to look up at their guide, "how long have you lived here? I mean, in this part of the city."

"All my life," the boy replied. "My family lives under Chief Igdir's protection and in his household."

"And have you ever seen a dragon before? I mean, before yesterday?"

Bento shook his head.

"Hiccup," Astrid chimed in, her voice urgent, "we need to get to shelter, and fast." She was right; already the snow had thickened, and the light was fading rapidly as the storm moved in.

Fishlegs clambered on Meatlug's back. "It's okay, girl," he said, shushing her worried grunts. Meatlug really didn't care for snow. "Can we please get moving, Hiccup? I don't think we're gonna' get another chance to show you what we found. The snow will cover it if we don't leave now."

"Lord Hiccup," Bento persisted, "you must come inside. No one is permitted on the surface during a storm."

Hiccup paused to think, snowflakes melting in his hair and accumulating on his leather armor. Then he climbed on Toothless's back, motioning Astrid to do the same with Stormfly. "Lead the way, Fishlegs," he said, "but be quick about it."

"Right you are. Come on, Meatlug!"

"Please, lord Hiccup," Bento begged, gesturing with his hands, "you'll freeze out here and I'll be in trouble if I return alone."

"Come with us, then." Hiccup held out a hand, smiling though the light was dim. Bento hemmed and hawed for several moments, glancing back and forth from the beckoning door of the hall and Hiccup's outstretched hand. Finally, he grasped the hand and climbed up on Toothless, sitting down stiffly. Hiccup leaned forward, expectant. "Let's go, bud," he said quietly, and they rose into the air, following Fishlegs down a narrow alley carved in the ice. Stormfly fluttered behind them.

The wind picked up behind them and howled through the hollowed ice like an enraged warlord screaming out his defiance. Meatlug buzzed onward, oblivious to the shrieking wind, in what Hiccup judged to be an easterly direction. The light continued to fade, though it was only late morning and the day should have been brightening. Snow drifted down between the walls of ice to coat every surface under a shrouding veil. Hiccup could feel Bento looking fearfully over his shoulder at every turn in the narrow street, as if to ward off the repercussions of his disobedience before they could catch him.

"How far are we going, Fishlegs?" Hiccup called ahead after some time.

"It's just up ahead," Fishlegs replied.

The small group of dragons and riders took a sharp turn and immediately fanned out into a wider formation as the space broadened abruptly. Bento gasped when he saw the floor beneath them; it had dropped away into a wide and shallow bowl, where the snow drifted and slid down the sides to pool at the bottom. The walls were smoothed to the unnatural bluish sheen of compacted ice, but the space was open to the sky.

With a collective gasp, the riders looked up to gaze on the black clouds that had obscured the sun behind their angry furrows. But the dragons followed Meatlug, who had changed direction to drop down into the snow at the bottom of the bowl. The moment she landed, Fishlegs leaped off and began digging in the drifting white.

"Help me, guys!" he called from his work, and Hiccup and Astrid scrambled to join him. Using their frozen hands and, eventually, the wide sweep of Toothless's tail, they cleared the snow away and looked down at something they had all hoped to never see again.

It was the slitted eye of a massive dragon, frozen into the ice in an attitude of aggressive hostility, as if the beast had been struggling to escape the ice even as it encased him. Hiccup knelt down to examine it more closely, suddenly heedless of his companions.

Bento had hung back, but upon seeing his guests huddled in the center of the bowl, he stepped forward, curious as to what they had found. When his gaze fell upon the frozen dragon, he choked back a startled cry and fainted dead away, overcome with fear.


	5. Chapter 5: Journey

Chapter 5:

Tintin and the Captain saw very little of their new friend over the following week. The Captain was constantly in and out, patrolling the decks, attempting to converse with the _Marie-Claire_ 's crew or captain, or standing on the prow twiddling his thumbs and trying not to fidget. Tintin, for his part, spent most of his time in their cabin planning the overland trek. Some of it would be by plane, in two short jumps from one isolated village to another, but the third and final push to Baffin Bay would have to be on foot across the open ice. They'd spoken little of it after their first day at sea, but Tintin knew the time for planning would soon be over, replaced with the time for action.

They had stopped over in Iceland for mail and imported goods, and where Tintin received a telegram from the Greenland expedition's leader, one Dr. Vladimir Ladunsky of the University of Moscow. It detailed the desired rendezvous they were to make with members of the expedition, but gave no description at all of the discovery they had made. The Captain had harrumphed and made some caustic comments about archeologists and their secretive habits.

On the few occasions when they did catch sight of Angus, he was nearly always nose-deep in his battered notebook, studying who knew what scraps and fragments of information, no doubt looking for some way to prove his theory and re-establish himself in the academic world. When not buried in his notebook, he was reacting violently to the swell and constant motion, retching over the side of the _Marie-Claire_.

When, after a week sailing ever farther north, they disembarked in Kulusuk, Greenland, Tintin, the Captain, and Angus met in the small city's only hotel, it was to finalize the last few details before setting out early the next morning. Their destination was Baffin Bay.

* * *

"You know, Tintin," the Captain ventured, "every time we get into one of these tin cans, something bad happens."

"Nonsense, Captain," Tintin gritted out, clutching the yoke with a white-knuckled grip as the plane shook and rattled around them. "It's just . . . turbulence."

"Turbulence?" Angus shouted, his voice incredulous. "This is horrible! Much worse than anything I've felt at sea."

"That's rich, coming from a landlubber like you," the Captain retorted sharply.

"Oh, please," Tintin pleaded, "arguing about it won't make it any better."

An uneasy silence settled between them as the plane rattled on. They were on the second leg of their journey across Greenland, in a tiny plane they had chartered on their last stop. With Tintin piloting and Angus, Snowy, and the Captain squeezed into the cramped cockpit, they were entirely on their own, and heading straight into a massive snowstorm. Already the wind buffeted them, swirling and shifting direction so quickly Tintin was struggling to hold the plane to its proper course. As they flew onward, the snow began, dumping down in a sheet of driving, greyish white that obscured the view and turned land and sky into a blank canvas. Snowy crouched on the plane's floor, whining in terror.

"Quiet, Snowy," Tintin said, concerned and wishing he could pet the dog. Snowy looked up at his owner, hopeful, but soon laid his head back down again on his paws.

"Can't we land and wait it out?" Angus asked, his voice rising suddenly in pitch as the plane rocked alarmingly.

"And let the storm tear us to pieces on the ground? We'd never get back up again. Besides, in case you haven't noticed, there is nowhere safe to land."

Angus looked out the narrow window and gulped. Through the wind-torn shreds of grey cloud he could see the jagged peaks and valleys in the ice beneath, every surface lumpen and uneven. Landing was completely out of the question. Even as he watched, a gust of wind caught their tailfin and threatened to send them spinning out of control to crash on one of the peaks.

"Come on, come on," Tintin whispered, his face screwed up in concentration.

"Reminds me of the Sahara," the Captain quipped, his face nearly white. Snowy had jumped up into his lap and he was clutching the dog for dear life.

"No time for reminiscing, Captain," Tintin replied, bouncing in his seat as they nearly flipped over. "There's only one thing to do: get as low as we can, away from the clouds, and try to outrun it. Without hitting anything or crashing."

"But that's suicide," Angus nearly shrieked.

"Have you got a better idea?"

There was no reply. Tintin pressed the yoke forward and the plane dropped, plummeting sickeningly before evening out over the snow-covered terrain. The visibility was marginally better below the cloud-line, though the wind and snow were worse, sheeting across their wings and windshield like living, malevolent beings hungry for blood. Angus's stomach turned over and he fought down the overwhelming urge to be violently sick on the floor of the cockpit. Snowy continued to whimper in distress, his ears flat on his head and claws buried in the Captain's blue jersey. The Captain himself was fully occupied with holding the dog still and swearing furiously under his breath, every word ground out through clenched teeth.

In the pilot's seat, Tintin was breathing heavily with concentration as he fought with the yoke. Under his hands, the plane leveled out and sped forward to eat up mile upon mile of unbroken white.

"How far to the next stopping point?" the Captain asked after another half-hour of frightened silence.

"Shouldn't be far now," Tintin replied. "In fact, by my calculations, it should be on the horizon."

"I can't see anything," Angus responded, straining his eyes to see through the murky gloom. "Oh, wait . . . no. There's something . . . over there." He pointed vaguely to the right, drawing his companions' attention away briefly to glance through a side window.

The ice pillar appeared suddenly, as if from nowhere, clipping their left wing and sending them spinning uncontrollably. Tintin shouted, Snowy barked, the Captain swore, and Angus put his head down as they bumped through piles of drifted snow and came to a screeching, crashing halt on the very outskirts of a village. Lights flickered through the storm and it wasn't long before the town's inhabitants bundled out to investigate the downed plane.

Tintin and his friends climbed shakily out of the wreckage, groaning at new bruises and nearly burying themselves in the deep snow. Getting up and calming Snowy, Tintin gazed ruefully at the remains of what had been their ride.

"There goes another one," he said quietly, still patting the snow out of Snowy's fur. The dog barked and licked his owner's face in agreement. "No matter, Snowy, as long as we're all in one piece. Is anybody hurt?"

The Captain patted his ribs thoughtfully, counting. "Negative. All present and accounted for, thank the fates," he reported, pushing his cap a little higher on his head.

"Angus?"

The groaning lump of green overcoat stirred groggily, then a head finally popped up out of the snow. "Where did you say you got your pilot's license?" he asked, wincing.

"I didn't," Tintin quipped, reaching out a hand to help Angus up.

"You could've warned me," the other complained, shaking snow out of his eyes.

They stood, peering through the driving snow as the first responders arrived. Tintin stepped forward eagerly, extending a hand and calling out greetings in French, German, and English. The new arrivals seemed to understand the latter, for their leader responded quickly. He was a large man, nearly a head taller than the Captain and bundled in a massive, fur-lined parka. His boots left deep prints in the fresh snow and when he spoke, his voice rumbled with a western American accent.

"Welcome to the wastelands of glorious Greenland," he boomed out. "I'm assuming your dramatic entrance didn't go quite according to plan."

"No," Tintin began, still blinking snow out of his eyes and trying to adjust to the gloom.

The big stranger thrust a hand forward. "Watt," he grunted in introduction.

"What? What are you talking about?" the Captain wheezed in confusion. He made to brush the stranger's hand away, but Angus cut him off.

"Is that you, Harrison?" he asked, as if he recognized the stranger.

"What the . . . ?" The big man hesitated and leaned forward, peering at the scholar anxiously. "Angus!" he shouted, wrapping the other in an enormous and bone-crushing bear-hug. The Captain winced, positive he could hear the smaller man's ribs cracking.

"The very same, and hello to you too."

"How've ya been, ya lunatic?"

"I've been better, and would you mind putting me down, please?"

"Oh, sorry." The American dropped Angus rather unceremoniously onto the snow. Angus picked himself up and surreptitiously checked his ribs. "Watt Harrison," the big man said, shaking hands with a grip like iron. "Base leader and expedition guide. But enough of my talk, ya must be frozen. Come in, come in, we'll see if we can't rustle up some grub for ya."

They followed Watt back into the town, Tintin nodding to the inhabitants who asked to keep the wreckage of the plane. He'd regret it later, but it was no use worrying about it at that point.

Harrison soon led them into a small house that was thickly insulated against the storm, and sat them down in front of a hot meal. They tucked in vigorously, eating and exchanging stories with their garrulous host.

"Tintin and Captain Haddock, eh?" he asked when they introduced themselves. "Famous names; what brings ya all the way to Greenland, and in the company of my old college roommate, Angus Hoffmann?"

"Small world, isn't it?" Angus said.

"Actually, I thought you were expecting us," Tintin began. "We're here to find the archeological expedition. Dr. Ladunsky's telegram indicated that we were to meet you here for instructions before continuing on to Baffin Bay."

"Oh, old Vladimir," Watt said. "I must've forgotten in all the excitement. It's not every day we get a crashed plane with survivors."

"Do planes come down often?" the Captain asked in alarm.

Harrison burst out laughing. "Nah, don't you worry yourself, Captain. The most excitement we get out here is the occasional spot o' sunshine." He took a swallow from a dark bottle, then turned to Angus abruptly. "And you, Angus; I don't remember reading your name in Vladimir's instructions, and that one I would've remembered. What are you doing here in frozen fairyland? Not trying to prove those crazy theories of yours, I hope."

Angus shrugged, and Tintin had the fleeting but distinct impression that he would have preferred to not answer the question. "I'm a historian, it's a dig, how could I stay away?"

Watt slapped him on the back good-naturedly. "That's the spirit, kid! I always liked that about you." He turned to Tintin and the Captain. "Would you believe it, Angus here talked me into taking this job? It's all thanks to him that I spend my time tramping around the most desolate places on Earth, freezing my bum off one month and sweltering to death the next."

"You're a wilderness guide," Tintin guessed correctly. "Attaching yourself to any and all professional teams that come through and need to know the layout."

"Right you are, Tintin," Watt agreed. "You might be able to tell how old a bit of bone is, but if you don't know where you're goin' or how to survive in bad weather, then you're sunk. But that's quite enough of that." He leaned forward and unrolled a large map. "So, tomorrow we set out for the camp. I reckon two days march will get us there, maybe less without any complications. From there, it's another day's march to the head of the bay and after that you're sittin' pretty in the North Atlantic."

"How do you figure that?" the Captain asked, leaning forward over the map and pointing at the spot Harrison had identified as the camp. "It's miles to the place, and a roaring gale outside. There's no way we'll get there in two days."

"Oh, that? Nah, that's just a stiff breeze. Besides," Watt smiled conspiratorially and winked, "we won't be walking on the surface. Just you wait and see."

They drifted off to their beds shortly after that, but as Tintin lay listening to the whistle of the wind outside, he couldn't help but wonder why certain parts of Watt's story didn't quite add up.

* * *

 **A/N: Would love some more feedback, folks. Future chapters might depend on it . . .**


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